


the devil's voice (is sweet to hear)

by nookiepoweredamazon



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Emma's staring problem, F/F, Late Night Conversations, Manipulation, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 00:53:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3709055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nookiepoweredamazon/pseuds/nookiepoweredamazon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Missing scene from 1x08, Desperate Souls]</p><p>Emma glances over and finds Regina wearing a carefully calculating expression, back and neck so perfectly straight that she could balance a book on her head; and Emma thinks, not for the first time, that maybe Henry isn’t crazy. There is something about Regina – beyond the clothes and the title and the big house, something present even as she stands barefoot in her entryway with her arms wrapped around herself in the cool night air – intrinsically <em>regal</em>.</p><p>Poised, like she’s the goddamn queen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Emma Swan has been a bail bondsperson long enough to know a con when she sees one. What she doesn’t know, exactly, is what the mayor of Storybrooke is trying to con her into while wearing a black satin slip.

Regina stands haloed in soft light, framed in that ostentatious entryway with her hand on the door. There's a robe wrapped loosely around her waist, pulled most of the way shut, but it doesn’t quite hide the fact that the silky fabric hugs like it was made for her; as if it were tailored specifically to confuse deputies knocking on the door at midnight.

And if that was its purpose, well. Emma can safely say that it's working.   

Regina raises an eyebrow slowly, and Emma falters; partially out of shock and partially because she has two eyes and a pulse. Then she remembers that she once answered the door in a tank top and underwear, and Regina had managed an entire conversation (threat?) without once looking down.

So, Emma drags her eyes back up to the mayor’s face and resolves to do the same.

“Hi.” That wasn’t what Emma had meant to say.

She had meant to say, _Madame Mayor, it’s the dead of night and I’ve been up for three days straight preparing for an election that you’re fighting me on,_ but every other time she’d knocked on the door she’d found Regina dressed to the nines, as if she just conjured a three piece suit out of thin air, so. She's a little off her game.

“Miss Swan,” Regina hums, looking a little too pleased for Emma’s liking, leaning softly into the doorway. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“You called me." Emma's voice is still edgy and sleep-rough, and she hopes she looks half as irritable as she feels.

“Very observant, deputy.” Regina’s smile is smooth, and when she says the word ‘deputy’ it’s a reminder that Emma hasn’t won the election yet, that even dragging Regina from a burning building may not be enough to beat the mayor’s pick for sheriff.  

“The surprise,” Regina says, swinging the front door open, “is that you came.”

She gestures Emma in, and Emma realizes – as she finds herself looking down several inches at the other woman, several inches that had definitely not been there before – that Regina is barefoot.

Emma’s never seen her barefoot. In fact, she’s never seen Regina outside of three inch heels and power suits. It's...jarring, in a way she wouldn't expect.

“Cider?” Regina asks, like it’s not insane for her to stand half-dressed in her entryway and offer Emma a drink. Emma plants a hand on her hip, watching Regina carefully through narrowed eyes.

She's missing something. She's missing something and she doesn't like it.

“Pass.”

The front door is still very much on its hinges, and as far as Emma can tell there are no intruders, explosions, or missing persons to be dealt with. Henry’s light is off upstairs but his sneakers rest, slightly scuffed, in the entryway.

“Ah, of course,” Regina smiles a little wider, a little sweeter. “It wouldn’t do to have you taking out any more signage while you’re running for sheriff, now would it? One DUI is quite enough, on top of what I’m sure is quite the impressive criminal record.”

Emma rolls her eyes, but breathes a little easier. This is the Regina she knows, calculated barbs and predictable superiority, and she can handle that.

“You really need to work on your small talk, Madame Mayor.”

Regina smirks, and there’s a peek of bare shoulder that appears when the robe slips – as Regina turns to lock the front door – and that, Emma's not as prepared for; because she's pretty sure checking out her son's adoptive mother is some kind of cardinal sin, no matter what kind of slinky robe she's wearing. No matter how sharp and dark and captivating her eyes.  
  
Emma squares her own shoulders, thumbs hooked in her pockets, and looks pointedly in the other direction.

Light pours out from the open door of the study, illuminating black picture frames and carefully placed figurines. A bowl of apples sits, looking picturesque near the banister; and Emma wonders suddenly why the mayor’s house always make her feel like she’s standing in the middle of something… something…

Twisted?

Somehow Emma keeps picturing a forest, dark and deep and old, though that could just be the wallpaper. She's always felt a strange sense of timelessness in Storybrooke, and it’s a thousand times stronger in the mayoral mansion.

Emma glances over and finds Regina wearing a carefully calculating expression, back and neck so perfectly straight that she could balance a book on her head; and Emma thinks, not for the first time, that maybe Henry isn’t crazy. There is something about Regina – beyond the clothes and the title and the big house, something present even as she stands barefoot in her entryway with her arms wrapped around herself in the cool night air – intrinsically _regal._

Poised, like she’s the goddamn queen.

“See something you like, Miss Swan?” Regina drawls.

Emma realizes she’s staring, looking too hard and too long, and Regina’s expression is edging towards amusement. The deputy only huffs, glancing up towards the stairs.

“The kid…?” Emma hazards.

Regina’s eyes flash – a reminder of the fierce, maternal possessiveness with which she has threatened to destroy Emma Swan if it's the last thing she does – but as soon as the fire comes, it is gone. Regina shifts in place, like a cat putting its claws back in, and smooths out the front of her robe.

“Upstairs,” she breathes, “asleep.”

Emma, mind whirling through a dozen different explanations for Regina calling her here, each more absurd than the last, only nods. She wrestles briefly with the idea of heading upstairs to check on Henry – she's never seen her son's bedroom, after all. Does he have leather-bound books lining the wall? Is his bed propped up like a castle and his walls painted with dragons? – and her stomach _twists_.  


“He has a bedtime, you know,” Regina adds, demurely; as if reading Emma's thoughts.

"Yeah," Emma says, clearing her throat. "Yeah, of course."

Regina turns on her heel, and walks – slowly, in a way that Emma would _swear_ is fucking purposeful – just far enough ahead to give Emma a helpless view of gently swaying hips.

Emma follows her into the study, and remembers the first day she’d spent in Storybrooke; the first time she’d sat in Regina’s study, sipping cider and listening to the impeccably dressed woman across from her explain the strains of being a single mother. Everything had seemed so much simpler back then, so much easier – when she thought about how lucky Henry was to be growing up among polished marble instead of on food stamps. Before Emma understood just how deep Regina had sunk her teeth into the people of this town.

“So,” Emma starts, planting both her hands on her hips; remembering the fear in Archie and Mary Margaret and her son’s eyes when they said the word _Regina_. “Henry’s fine?”

A fire murmurs in the corner, and Regina is across the room fussing with the drapes. They open just far enough to offer a sliver of dimly lit street, a breath of moonlight. The mayor bends discreetly at the waist, and Emma finds the books lined up on the wall suddenly very interesting.

“Yes, he is.”

“And you are…” Emma runs a finger along one of the bindings.

“Also fine,” Regain answers smoothly. "That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about." She turns to watch Emma with an intense sort of focus, head tilted ever so slightly, and Emma can’t shake the feeling that a trap’s about to spring; that the woman in the room with her is dangerous.

“You called the sheriff’s office,” Emma folds her arms across her chest, indignantly. “You called the sheriff’s office _at midnight_.”

That call had dragged Emma out of a satisfying nap, the single bright star in an otherwise lousy night shift. All she had to look forward to was tomorrow’s debate, where Sydney was going to rake her reputation over the coals.

“Miss Swan,” Regina smiles – that sharp, predator’s smile, like something with its tail twitching above the tall grass – and crosses the room to stand entirely too close (and not for the first time, Emma has this strange sensation that Regina is, somehow, lethal at arm’s length). “Would you like to continue telling me things I already know, or would you like to get down to business?”

One dark eyebrow lifts in challenge, and Emma can feel her jaw tightening.

She wrestles, momentarily, with the idea of walking right back out the front door – knowing it would drive Regina crazy to be ignored – but decides she’s too damn curious to indulge her petty side. Regina is being friendly, by Regina standards, anyway, and that can mean only one thing.

She wants something.

"Fine," Emma waves her hands irritably. "Fine. Let's...talk. 'Cause that's not fucking weird."

"I hope you don't use that sort of language in front of my son," Regina snaps, almost reflexively. It lacks bite. 

She sinks down onto a couch near the fire and gestures for Emma to sit across from her, then has the good graces to look offended when she refuses. Emma goes on standing and shrugs, and they spend several uncomfortable seconds in silence.

There’s paperwork scattered across the table between them, a half-drained glass of cider, and what looks like a forgotten cup of coffee. When Regina surveys the table she runs a hand through her hair, and looks, suddenly, tired.

“Pulling an all-nighter?” Emma asks, to fill the silence.

Regina leans back and crosses her legs, satin slip riding up a few more inches of thigh. The mayor's smile is small this time, almost brittle, and Emma can see in the incandescent light that she’s not wearing any makeup. She looks a whole lot more human, with her face in softer hues.

“Sheriff Graham’s death," Regina says, with a heaviness that Emma had not expected – has never heard from her, and is most definitely startled by – "has put immense strain on several sides of our little town."

Emma freezes.

“Storybrooke,” Regina murmurs, “will certainly miss his presence dearly.” Her voice is low and raw; like flesh that's still bleeding, and Emma is quite certain that Regina’s not talking about the town at all.

There is an excruciating pause, in which Emma examines her badge and the wall and finally, _finally_ Regina, because there's nothing else to look at and god the woman looks destroyed.

"Graham was a good man," Emma says, at last – because it’s the type of thing people say. She means to sound calm, to close this line of conversation; but it comes out like gravel because it’s only been _two weeks_ and she still gets nauseous when she thinks about it. The way he’d crumpled, the way his body just went slack.

Emma's stomach flips, and she grips her badge so hard it hurts.  

When Regina looks up, her eyes are soft. They flicker over Emma’s expression, searching, and Emma _defies_ her to acknowledge that her eyes are a little too wet; that her jaw’s held a little too tight and she can’t seem to breathe.

“Yes," Regina agrees in a small voice, "he was."

Regina reaches for the glass of cider on the table. When she takes a sip her eyes crinkle at the edges, with a sad, shadow of a smile – like remembering – and her voice wavers a little bit when she says, "I hope you understand, Miss Swan, that I was beyond sorry to see him go.”

Emma searches every instinct inside of herself, feels around from her fingertips to her toes, but her lie detector does not go off. It doesn’t even whisper. Dark eyes flick up towards her steadily, and this woman who wears lipstick and heels like armor looks remarkably exposed, barefoot with her lips unpainted.

Emma rocks on the balls of her feet, and, with a tiny huff, drops into the seat across from Regina.  
  
Fuck it.

"On second thought, I'll take that drink."

Regina manages about half a smile, and pulls over an empty glass.

"You saved my life today," Regina whispers, so quietly it's almost drowned out by the soft sounds of her shuffling paperwork around the table. She breathes it in the hushed sort of voice one uses when telling a secret in the dark, like it’s not printed all over Emma's new campaign posters – and suddenly, Emma feels uneasy that it is.

Emma’s shoulders jump in a shrug, and she goes back to examining her deputy's badge pointedly. "Anyone decent would've done it."

She can feel brown eyes heavy on her, can almost see Regina's lips purse; and Emma wonders, in a far off part of her mind, what Henry would say if he walked downstairs and found her sitting with his mother having a drink.

He'd worry about Operation Cobra; but the very idea seems ludicrous, now that people are dying.

There is a long, drawn out silence in which Emma realizes she's never registered how small Regina is. She's always raised up in heels, emanating this strange sense of presence and feverish control, occupying a disproportionate amount of any room. Now, curled up on the couch in the firelight, she looks more like a heartbroken woman with a recently deceased lover. A single mother whose son keeps running away. A startled politician, who thinks the competition would actually leave her to die.

The sheer panic on her face – the way Regina genuinely wouldn’t have been surprised if Emma had _abandoned_ her, wounded, in a burning building – says a whole lot more about Regina than it does about Emma.

And suddenly, Emma finds that really fucking tragic.

“Miss Swan, may I speak plainly?”

Regina is blinking the softness from her eyes and straightening up. She tips her glass back and drains it, then pours herself another. When she speaks again it’s nearer to that familiar, haughty tone; an octave lower and infinitely sharper.

"I do not like you near my son." Regina taps a sharp nail on the crystal glass, disdain shaping her features into a familiar scowl. "Frankly, I do not even like you in my town."

Emma opens her mouth, but Regina raises a finger for silence and, for once, Emma abides it.

"However," Regina clears her throat, "you have made it abundantly clear that you are not leaving.”  


Emma blinks.

“As such," Regina continues, with a sort of long-suffering sigh, "it would be foolish for me to continue what I have been doing, since any attempts at forcing you to leave have obviously…" her lip, right above that slender scar, twitches, "backfired.”

There is a pause, in which Regina takes another sip and Emma begins to wonder if she's having a stroke.  


"You have, to my knowledge," Regina continues, with a stilted, pained inflection, like every admission is a tooth being pulled, "never put Henry in danger." She only looks half begrudging when she adds, "In fact, on several occasions I believe you’ve protected him."

Emma doesn't think it's possible for Regina to look any more uncomfortable, but she's wrong because when Regina says, "And now, today _,_ _me_ ,” she legitimately looks like she'd rather be bathing in acid than having this conversation.

It would be funny, if it weren't so damn disorienting.

Regina is gripping her glass like a lifeline when she says, “You’re well intentioned, Emma, if not graceless in your execution.”

It doesn't escape her that it's the first time Regina has called her by name, and something about that practically gives her vertigo.

“Thanks,” Emma says, thickly. She has a feeling she should probably be insulted, be indignant at all the backhanded compliments, but she can’t bring herself to summon any malice. Her expression falls just as flat, because she's pretty sure she's not glaring or looking suspicious in the slightest. She's just...staring.

"So, what does that–"

"–Mean?" Regina interrupts, curtly. "It means, Miss Swan, that I'm proposing a truce."

And, finally, Emma downs her drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [midnightbokeh](http://midnightbokeh.tumblr.com/), my super-powered beta. Special thanks to [arcticdrunkey](http://arcticdrunkey.tumblr.com/) and [myotherpatronusisanotter](http://myotherpatronusisanotter.tumblr.com/) for their feedback, and for putting up with me hyperventilating every time Regina bats an eyelash.
> 
> More soon! Feel free to watch [my tumblr](http://nookiepoweredamazon.tumblr.com/) for updates, or to shoot me prompts.


	2. Chapter 2

Regina does not want Emma around her son, does not want Emma to be sheriff, and quite possibly does not even want Emma alive. So when she called, Emma had assumed a late-night summoning meant desperate danger – not sitting in Regina’s study drinking cider.

The pistol at Emma’s hip won’t help her navigate strangled, heartfelt confessions about the dead or the occasional glimpse of thigh; and it certainly won’t help Emma understand an olive branch, suddenly offered, by the woman looking at her intently from across the table.

“You…want a truce,” Emma repeats stiffly, like wrapping her tongue around a foreign language.

Regina’s lips twitch, like she’s struggling not to ask Emma if she must repeat _absolutely everything_ for her, but she merely nods.

“Why?” 

“I would have thought that, at least, would be obvious.” Regina raises an eyebrow pointedly. “We’ve only been speaking about it for the last five minutes.”

“But—“ Emma moves her hands vaguely around in front of her; and if she looks skeptical, well, that’s because the last time they had an extended conversation, Regina punched her square in the face. For a paper-pusher, the woman’s right hook is impressive. 

“Five hours ago you were pissed at me for not saving you from a fire gently enough,” Emma leans forward. “ _Gently enough,_ Regina.” 

“Yes, well,” the mayor’s voice drops an octave, catches like a physical thing slipping past her teeth, “I’ve had most of the night to think on that, haven’t I? Given that my son ran straight to his room when we got home, refused dinner, and will not stop telling everyone who will stand still long enough what a hero you are. How you’re going to save _all of Storybrooke,_ ” Regina gestures broadly with a quick flourish, then scowls, motioning tightly to herself, “from the _Evil Queen._ ”

There are tiny explosions happening behind Regina's eyes, and Emma opens her mouth just to close it again.

“Regina, I—“ Emma has the strangest urge to reach across the table and cover Regina’s hand with hers, because it’s shaking a little around her crystal glass, tightening like she wants it to shatter – like it might _actually_ shatter – and Regina has no make-up and no shoes on, and behind the fire and brimstone those dark eyes are so _wide,_ pupils blown out–

And she never wanted Henry to call his mother _evil_.

“I didn’t save you in some kind of kid-centric powerplay, okay?" Emma grips her jumping knee to stop herself from reaching. "I didn’t have...I didn’t have _motive_.” 

Regina’s eyes burn into hers for a long moment – alive with scarcely contained rage and jealousy, and something else that Emma can’t quite place that blazes just as bright – but eventually they flicker down and simmer, like coals on a dying fire. Emma watches as Regina rolls an ankle out gingerly, and it takes her a moment to realize it's where she’d been pinned in the rubble, where the stairwell had collapsed. 

When Regina finally speaks, her voice has that soft quality back, just a faint haze around the edges. “I know." Then, like she just can’t help herself, she adds, “Motive implies forethought.”

Emma rolls her eyes.

She holds out her glass and Regina refills it, just halfway; this will have to be Emma's last glass or she's walking back to the station and doing patrols on foot. (Not that it would be much of a challenge in this five-block town. It might compromise her ability to remove a drunk Leroy from the Rabbit Hole if she’s stumbling, though.)

“You really want a cease-fire?” Emma finally asks, because she’s too familiar with Regina’s withering glare and the sharp side of her voice not to, because the peaceable silence still feels wrong. 

Regina swirls the amber liquid in her glass, watching it like a magic eight ball. Emma eyes the pale pink of Regina’s mouth. That slender scar is more prominent without the lipstick, more obvious when Regina’s lips part – and oddly, Emma finds it pretty.

“You’ve protected me, and this city, and my son," It’s not comfortable, it isn't smooth, but the sentiment doesn't catch and drag like it did the first time, doesn’t weigh heavily in the air. "We don’t see eye to eye on a great many things, Miss Swan,” Regina's dark eyes flicker up and hold, “but we don’t need to be enemies.”

The firelight makes Regina's eyelashes cast flickering shadows on her cheek, highlights the depth of her scar, and Emma thinks that’s probably the closest thing to ‘I’m sorry for being a tremendous bitch’ that she’s ever going to get. So, she savors it.

She wants to return the sentiment, somehow – to tell Regina that she must be one hell of a mother, beneath all the controlling behavior and neuroses, because Henry is good and clever and healthy, he’s _whole_ , and that certainly wasn't Emma's doing – but she also knows what commenting on Regina's parenting usually gets her, and the moment is a little too nice to ruin.

So she just smiles, close-lipped, and lifts her glass a little.

It’s nothing, but it’s apparently enough because Regina stops gripping her glass like a vice and the set of her shoulders eases. They sit quietly for several seconds, which could almost be called comfortable, until Emma opens her big mouth.

“Are you saying we should be…” Emma hesitates, has to stop and screw up her face, because it doesn’t sound right even in her head, “friends?”

Regina laughs outright.

It's not a harsh laugh – it’s melodic and light, almost musical – but that doesn't mask the insult. Emma is right in the middle of looking offended when the motion of Regina uncrossing her legs and leaning forward stops her dead in her tracks.

The robe doesn’t cover much from that angle. 

Emma looks – she can't help it – and everything is smooth, olive skin from throat to breastbone. She can see a black lace bra and an _insane_ amount of cleavage. She can see way more than she’s supposed to see and the room just got ten degrees warmer. 

“I’m saying–” Regina’s voice is smooth and unwavering. There’s a whisper of space between Regina’s parted thighs, shadows sliding between them, and Emma struggles not to let her eyes catch. When she drags her gaze back up, Regina meets it, unblinking. There’s something heavy in her eyes.

“We should be allies,” Regina practically purrs, and Emma _reels_ , because holy shit.

Regina is seducing her.

Emma swallows thickly, wipes her hands uselessly over her denim-clad thighs, and glances out towards the entryway – towards the only thing that makes sense to her ninety percent of the time, the single point making her and Regina's lives collide; towards the kid with Emma’s scrunched up nose when he laughs, and Regina's patented eyebrow raise.

Towards the kid whose voice is the only thing echoing around in her head saying, _don’t trust her._

"And if I want to see Henry...?" Emma asks, tentatively.

The change is immediate. Regina retracts, knees sliding back together.

“Deputy,” she replies in a precariously cool tone, like silk over steel, “Henry is asleep.”

“Not what I meant.”

Regina looks to the side, her profile cast orange and flickering in the firelight, and presses her lips together. "I'm sure that we could reach some kind of eventual…arrangement, for you to spend time with my son." The emphasis on _my son_ seems almost involuntary, impossible for Regina to resist, and Emma bristles –

Because somewhere in the back of her mind, her lie detector just went off.

"Bullshit,” Emma’s voice is quiet, low, but furious. “What kind of game are you playing, Regina?"

Dark eyes widen minutely, "I'm sure I don't know what you’re—"

Emma slams her glass back down onto the table and is pleased to see Regina jump. "Don’t bullshit me. I know a con when I see one."

A few seconds creep past with Regina’s face unmoved; then, something cold slides into place.

"A con," Regina repeats, flatly. "That's rich," her lip curls, and suddenly her voice has all of its edges back, all of its claws, "coming from a woman who's actually _been_ to prison—"

"Seriously, you're going to bring that up now? Right after you let Henry find out that I gave birth in prison via the _news_ —“

Emma realizes she’s on her feet, jaw tight and fists clenched; and then she's cursing under her breath, because the view down Regina’s robe from this angle is like eighty percent worse and that’s honestly just making her angrier – that Regina’s messing with her head like this, that she thinks Emma could be led into believing that Regina actually wants –

"You know what?” Emma growls, “I'm not in the mood for this. If you have a real emergency, then you can call the Sheriff's station."

She turns on her heel, and she's ignoring her slight buzz rather expertly, walking clean and straight and purposefully. She's nearly at the door before a soft voice pierces her angry haze.

"Emma."

Her name. Her name is what fucking gets her, because it sounds strange and fragile on Regina's tongue — because every other day she’s been _Miss Swan_ but it’s the second time she’s been _Emma_ tonight – so she pauses long enough to hear it followed up with a fragile, “please wait."

When she turns it's to find Regina on her feet, looking a whole lot like she wishes she could take that prison jab back – but she can't, and she _won't_ , and the woman keeps doing sociopathic things that mess with Emma’s head like digging into sealed juvy records and threatening the kid's therapist; struggling for control with threats and manipulation and now _this_ , and the whole thing is _so fucked up._

What's even more fucked up is that when Regina steps into her bubble – demolishing her personal space in just a few precise strides – Emma has a hard time not looking at Regina’s lips, because they’re still really pink.

"You have, from the way Henry tells it," Regina says, gently, "a special gift for telling when someone is lying."

Emma loops her thumbs into her pockets, casts her knees wide and keeps glaring. "My superpower, yeah."

"Then use it."

The challenge in her voice is unmistakable, but when Regina meets her eyes there are no hard edges. Grudgingly, Emma examines Regina’s expression. She glosses over lips and cheeks and the hair falling at the edge of her temple. She stares into cool eyes, and hones in her focus like a laser.

“All right,” Emma concedes, “go.”

"I'm certain you could be a very powerful ally, Miss Swan." 

Emma feels deep down into her gut, but nothing shifts. Nothing at the back of her neck prickles.

"Okay, that... was true. But–"

Regina cuts her off with an impatient sound, leaning forward just a few more inches. Emma stares, directly into the other woman's dilated pupils, and then back down towards her mouth. There's a beauty mark just south of there that she'd never noticed before, opposite the scar. 

"Miss Swan," Regina enunciates clearly, "I am afraid.”

Emma blinks in surprise. Brown eyes hold, firm and tense and now a little hard at the edges, but Emma’s lie detector doesn’t flutter.

“I am afraid that you are going to take my son away from me."

Regina's voice catches, lilts, and it rings true; so true that Emma can feel it in every note of Regina’s voice, in every bone of her own body, and Emma's stomach tumbles like she's just tripped over stairs.

" _Regina–_ "

"Hush." Regina waves her into silence, brow lined. "There's more." 

Regina breathes in, a deep and steadying breath, and they’re standing so close together that when she lets it go Emma can feel it. She's got the height advantage – because boots – so the warm air beats out over her chin, and Emma has to look down an inch or two to watch Regina blink. To watch her lips press together, then slide back over her teeth.

"You," Regina says, "are very attractive."

At that, Emma’s brain stutters to a complete and total standstill.

"What?" Emma manages to croak, after several very tight heartbeats.

"You heard me," Regina answers softly.

Emma swallows, shifts from foot to foot, and her voice comes out small. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, Miss Swan,” Regina's voice steadies in the wake of Emma's shock, and she has the audacity to look the tiniest bit smug as she reaches out and brushes the hair back from Emma's cheek, to smile a little when Emma stops breathing, “that I find you attractive, and I think that could help us reach an agreement.” 

Emma knows it’s a bad idea, bad with a capital B, but Regina’s eyes wield an unnerving amount of sex appeal and she’s only human and so she lets her eyes drop just _one more time._

Big mistake.

Regina’s robe has slid back over her shoulder – a very pretty, delicate shoulder – and Emma can feel her pulse thrumming heavily in her veins. She can feel her tongue rewetting her lips. She can feel the way the space between them closes just a fraction of an inch each time Regina takes a breath, and seems to drain all the air from the room.

“Are you saying you want to," Emma inhales, then almost doesn’t finish her sentence – because it sounds even more absurd than her last question, but she has no idea how else to word it, because Regina is giving her whiplash – "…date me?”

The laugh is very soft this time, very low. 

“No, Miss Swan." Regina offers her a smile, even as her fingers trail boldly over Emma's jawline, blunt nails dragging, "I think that would be very ill-advised.” 

“Oh,” is all Emma manages, because there are fingers at her jaw and she is not wondering what kissing Regina would be like. She’s not wondering how those meticulously fitted outfits would look rumpled and misbuttoned. She's not wondering if Regina could look superior, even stripped to her skin.

She’s not, she’s not, she’s not. 

"Dear," fingers close around her chin, gently grounding, and Regina's voice is quietly amused, "focus."

"What are you saying?" Emma repeats, entirely too aware that Regina's thumb is brushing over her lips. That Regina is looking between her eyes and her mouth with an intensity that makes it hard to think.

“I’m saying," Regina leans up on her toes until their chests bump, until her lips brush warmly over Emma's ear–

"I want to fuck you.”

Emma’s brain positively short circuits.

Everything in Emma’s core is suddenly melting, pooling between her legs, and she's fairly certain her heartbeat is loud enough to hear straight through her chest. Regina's fingers ghost over her lips, her chin, and when Regina leans back languidly, fixes her with a dark and heavy stare, all Emma can think is holy fuck –

Because that’s something that would come up as a big, crazy, blip of a lie; but Emma's lie detector is turned up to ten, and all she finds is heat.

Regina wants her. Regina fucking wants her.

In a daze, Emma allows herself to be led back over to where moonlight filters in through open drapes and there’s a darkened view of the street. Regina walks herself back against the arm of one of the couches and lifts up on her toes to perch there. Gently, she draws Emma in by the hand.

Emma’s hips bump between Regina’s knees when she steps forward, and the intimacy of that alone has her head spinning, has her swallowing for air. There’s a small, vicious voice in the back of her head murmuring that this is a terrible idea, that using a beehive as a piñata is probably a better idea, but Emma’s not listening. She’s too busy wondering what it would feel like to drag slow, open-mouthed kisses down Regina’s hip bones, and if those nails scratch.

She places a tentative hand on Regina’s knee.

It’s been a long time, Emma realizes, since anyone has looked at her the way Regina is right now. Her last few partners had been men, strangers, and Emma had been pushing drunk for most of it. A quick release, something to get it out of her system or improve a week gone to shit; that was all she usually needed. That was enough.

But this, this is burning and bright with barely a touch, uncoiling something she didn’t even know was there; and maybe it’s because her blood is still hot from fighting, or because the woman in the room with her is real, tangible, and honestly a little bit dangerous – but all the memories of recent lovers seem to pale in comparison to the memory of warm, slow fingers at her jaw.

Regina’s even not touching her anymore, but she still _feels_ it. 

It’s odd, because it doesn’t seem like Regina’s style to sit patiently and wait to be kissed, but that’s exactly what she’s doing. She’s reclining gently, looking up at Emma through dark lashes with just a hint of a smirk.

And Emma realizes, suddenly, that this isn’t the first time she’s wanted to kiss that self-satisfied look right off Regina’s face. Not by a long shot. 

“I don’t bite,” Regina drawls, and Emma has the distinct impression that is a total lie, that if anyone bites it’s Regina; but she’s busy wondering if she can feel that little scar underneath her lips, underneath her tongue.

It feels like the inevitable pull of gravity – leaning in the last few inches, watching Regina’s eyes flutter shut – and it’s only in the last second, right before their lips touch, that Emma catches sight of something beyond the window.

She stops, a hair’s breadth away, and feels Regina’s short, expectant inhale.

“There’s a camera,” Emma breathes.

Brown eyes open, flutter up to hers impassively, and the line of Regina’s lips is still soft. Their foreheads bump lightly together.

“Mm?”

“That’s Sydney,” Emma whispers, “standing out on the street corner with a camera pointed this way.”

It only takes a second for Regina to school her features into something gentle, to capture Emma’s hand reassuringly on her knee and smile so, so carefully – but there is still an instant, a fraction of a second where Regina’s nostrils flare and her eyes narrow – and it is enough.

Emma’s lie detector is _screaming_ —

And when she jerks back, stumbles out of the other woman’s space, Regina can’t seem to help herself—

She smiles like a knife.

“Oh my god,” Emma says breathlessly, “you were going to spy-bang me.”

Regina chuckles and crosses her legs smoothly. When her hands settle over her knees, the expression she wears is pure derision. “I don’t think we’d have to take it quite that far, dear.”

Emma shoves the hair out of her face, and can’t summon any response besides a bark of a laugh as she realizes—

“If I’d carried you out of a burning building because we were...because I was trying to…” 

“Sleep with me? Loses some of its heroic appeal,” Regina agrees. “Looking as if you’re trying to crawl your way into my pocket and I _still_ didn’t endorse you,” she clucks her tongue, “well, that hardly makes you sheriff material, don’t you think?”

Emma’s mouth is hanging open, flabbergasted, because holy shit.

That’s why Regina is barefoot, and soft-eyed, and vulnerable. That’s why she let Emma feel like she holds the cards, let Emma make the moves – she’s feeding into a hero complex and keeping her off balance, lying with the truth – and it’s so clever and malicious it makes Emma want to throttle and fuck her in equal parts– 

Because she can already see how this story could have ended: in a series of pictures that look a whole lot like Emma showing up unannounced at midnight and pouncing on a half-dressed Regina. Ending with a picture, most likely, of Regina shoving her off. 

“And if the press doesn’t care, well,” Regina glances casually towards the stairs, “I think we both know someone who would.” 

Emma pictures Henry’s expression, his absolute horror – and her reaction is visceral, stomach flipping into nausea.

“That’s fucking sick.”

Regina looks down at Emma through her eyelashes, hands folded carefully over her knees – and cast in firelight and shadows, with a sharp, spiteful smile, she looks a hell of a lot like the evil queen Henry thinks she is.

“All’s fair, dear, in love and war.”

Emma drags the back of her hand across her lips; there’s no lipstick smeared there, but they got close enough to leave a phantom itch, and straightens out her shirt unnecessarily. 

She eyes Regina warily, staying well outside of their usual talking distance – which is, luckily for this exact situation, extremely close. Whatever Sydney did manage to get would probably just look like every other time they’d gotten into an argument, and Emma thanks her lucky stars that Regina is such a close talker. 

Regina seems to be reaching the same conclusion, because the novelty of watching her mortal enemy trip all over herself is fading, and she’s starting to look less and less amused. 

“I’m going to win this election,” Emma says, squaring her shoulders, “fair and square.” 

“Let’s hope for Storybrooke’s sake that you don’t, Miss Swan.” There is venom in Regina’s voice and that vein is starting to tick on her forehead. “You’re hardly sheriff material if I can spin your head within the hour.” 

"We'll let the voters decide that."

Regina shifts, and there’s a flash of teeth that's nothing like a smile. “You can see yourself out.”

Emma is more than happy to oblige, and she’s already halfway out of the room and several seconds into wondering if she should tell anyone about this (Mary Margaret would have a heart attack) when she realizes— 

“You weren’t lying.”

It leaves her with no small measure of surprise. When she turns, it’s to find that vein on Regina’s forehead pulsing visibly and her quiet calm evaporating by the second, dark eyes edging towards murderous.

“I think we just established, Miss Swan, that I _was_ lying.”

Emma tilts her head. “Yes, and no.”

Regina was playing her, weaving a broader lie and walking her into a trap – but on the little truths, Emma’s lie detector never misses. Regina thinks Emma’s alliance is worth something, the fire in Regina’s eyes and fingertips was real, and god—Emma can see it now in those furious eyes, so obvious in the incredible desperation of this scheme –

Regina isn’t just scared, she’s _terrified._

Emma is softer than she means to be when she murmurs, “Not about everything.”

They're smack dab in the middle of an unspoken custody battle – for Henry, for an entire town – and Regina is losing.

Emma can just barely make out Sydney vanishing around the block when she steps out the front door, kissed by the cool night air, and it doesn’t surprise her when something crashes and shatters in the house behind her.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the thanks to [midnightbokeh](http://midnightbokeh.tumblr.com/), who betas my fic diligently without giving two shakes about OUAT. <3


End file.
